Coin Operated Boy
by SailorCheesy
Summary: Arthur never expected to stumble upon a rather attractive wind-up toy while adventuring, nor did he expect to be dragged into the crazy adventure said boy would take him on to be returned to his human status. USUK, based off the song 'Coin Operated Boy' by the Dresden Dolls.


_Coin operated boy_

_Sitting on the shelf, he is just a toy_

_But I turn him on and he comes to life_

_Automatic joy_

_—Coin Operated Boy, by The Dresden Dolls_

* * *

A young man. Legs dangling, covered in a pair of pristine black slacks. Ancient red sneakers upon his feet. He sat, slumped, upon the dusty wooden shelf. His blue hoodie was scrunched up around his waist where he slumped, long arms hanging loosely over the edges of the shelf. The sleeves of the sweatshirt were rolled up to elbows. His skin was tanned. Shaggy golden hair had fallen in his face, making only a part of his glasses-framed face visible to the British boy who had crept into the old, abandoned shop.

A toy maker's shop, according the to the half-broken sign that hung by only one chain outside smashed glass door. Strange, though, how the only thing in this tiny little abandoned shop on this tiny little abandoned street in the tiny little abandoned town was that strange, extremely human-like figure on the single shelf.

There was no light in the place, so it was a good thing the boy had great vision. His mother always used to tell him his wide, emerald eyes were so bright they lit up the space in front of him and allowed him to see in the dark. The British boy took pride in this. His mother also used to tell him that his huge eyebrows were the reason he couldn't see everything in the dark—they overshadowed his bright eyes. The British boy did not take pride in this.

The boy slunk forward in the dim light, approaching the shelf. Yeah, right. There was no way he was going to be able to get the other guy down from there like this. The shelf was too high. He was going to need to climb a bit first. His pale fingers closed around the edge of the shelf. (He had to stand on his tiptoes.) The Brit heaved himself up, groaning with the effort. God, he really shouldn't have skipped pull-ups in gym...

He huffed and panted as he crawled onto the shelf, accidentally bumping the young man. After carefully re-adjusting glasses-face to his former position, eyebrows-face carefully moved himself to sit beside him.

"Hello?" He asked, those pretty green eyes blinking at the unconscious figure.

Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a sound. The young man was completely unresponsive. He looked to be young—a few years younger than the British man at least.

"...Hey, you. Can you hear me?" The Brit did not like being ignored. He furrowed those large brows of his and shook the other boy, clenching his teeth to keep from yelling out in frustration.

The body of the lanky teen(?) fell forward, bending at the waist. His chest folded over his legs and his head dropped between his legs. And there, glinting in the light, was a silver box. There was a hole cut in the boy's sweatshirt, revealing it. The words 'open me' were spelled out.

And the Brit, shrugging, decided that what was the worst could happen if he did as the small box said to? Using his fingernails, he pried open the box and peered inside.

"A turn key?" He mused aloud, blinking at it. It looked just like one of the turn keys on an old wind-up toy that he used to get from his father. How peculiar.

His slender fingers reached inside and fumbled with it for a second before getting a firm hold on the turn key. He began to wind it up, doing so for about thirty seconds or so. Then, he released the boy and shut the box.

For a second, all was still. His breath had caught in his throat, waiting for something to happen to the still awkwardly positioned teen.

Then, a breath, and not from the emerald eyed-boy. There was shifting and a groan. Glasses face was shifting, back arching, and then he was sitting up straight, and his eyes were so very beautifully sea blue, with the prettiest little flecks of gold. He turned to the British boy and stared, obviously bewildered. Those pretty eyes were wide and blinking rapidly. His mouth was open and agape. His blond brows were raised high upon his forehead.

"...Hi." He said. His voice was high-pitched. He had an American accent.

The British boy's mouth turned down in distaste. _Americans. _

"...Hello."

"Did you find me?" The wind-up boy asked.

"Er, yes... You were all alone in here..."

"Where's my owner?" Alfred looked around at the empty shop. "Wh-Why... Where is everything?" He asked, turning back to the Brit as if he would have all the answers.

"I haven't the slightest clue."

"Wh-Who are you? Did you do something to the shop?!" The wind-up boy scooted away from eyebrows face as much as possible without falling off the shelf.

"I haven't done a bloody thing to the shop! Honestly, you bloody Americans!" The Brit glared, "I'm your bloody savior and you don't even so much as thank you!"

"I don't need a savior, I'm a hero!" The wind-up boy retorted, blue eyes burning with anger. "And it's kind of hard to thank you when I don't know your name!"

"Arthur!" The Brit spat, folding his arms across his chest.

"Hmph. Well, thank you, Arthur. I guess. You're kind of moody. But whatever. I'm Alfred F. Jones, and I'm a toy here."

"A toy?" Arthur raised his large brow and looked at the peculiar boy once again. How strange... A toy? So why was he talking and moving all on his own?! How did he do this?!

"Well, kind of... I was cursed to be a toy. So I wasn't really. My master's trying to fix me, help change me back before time runs out."

"Time runs out?"

"Before I turn into a toy for real." Alfred answered. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking the dust from it. "I only had a year left when master last shut me down... He doesn't seem to be anywhere around here, though. Have you seen him?"

"No, I haven't. This town has been deserted for months."

"M-Months? That's impossible. What year is it?"

"2014."

The wind-up boy/toy sucked in a breath. "No... Master wouldn't leave me here. I know he wouldn't. He... Something must have happened! What month is it?!"

"May."

"M-MAY?!" Alfred's eyes were widened in horror at this point. "This isn't happening! I _know _this isn't happening! I know it! What day in March is it?!"

"The eighteenth." The Brit answered, and Alfred let out a squeak of horror.

"A WEEK! I have a week?! Oh, god, no! This isn't happening! This isn't fucking happening! No! Holy shit, no! I'm only nineteen! I don't fucking deserve this, I-I didn't even do what I was cursed for! You have to help me find my master!"

"Help you—? Oh, no. No bloody way. You're just a silly hallucination. Or a dream."

Alfred began to hyperventilate, grasping the blue hoodie tightly. "If you won't help me, I'll go by myself." He reasoned, sliding off the shelf. He was taller than Arthur by a lot.

The American ran to the overturned counter at which his owner used to sit and paint toys at. He quickly shoved it over, groaning with the effort of pushing the old, wooden desk away. Underneath was a small compartment, which he quickly pulled open. Inside was a small letter. He picked it up. The thing was scrawled out upon a ripped notecard. There were little splatters of his owner's favorite paint—bubblegum pink—littering the note.

_Alfred—_

_They're after me. I ran to protect you. They were onto us. I'm leading them away. There isn't much time. I don't know where I'll end up. I sincerely hope I'll be able to get back to you in time. I never wanted this for you. I'll be hiding out somewhere North, most likely in a Canadian province. Go to the WalMart two towns over and ask for Barry, he'll help. _

_Love, Francis._

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "WalMart? Seriously?" He asked aloud.

"Your owner doesn't seem to have loved you very much." Arthur stated, having read over Alfred's shoulder after he jumped off the shelf. The bloody American was going to pay for the scraped knee he got when he jumped.

Alfred jumped, almost ripping the note in half out of surprise. "GAH! What do you want?" He cried as he whipped around, still clutching the note. "He did love me, by the way!"

"I want an apology for so rudely leaving me on that shelf when I took the time to revive you." Arthur pursed his lips.

Alfred rolled his eyes and straightened to his full height, towering over the Brit. "Fine, I'm sorry."

"For?"

"For leaving you on the shelf." The American grumbled, looking over the note. "Now, think you can take me to WalMart?"

* * *

"So," Arthur began as he wound his car down some empty country roads. "Who is this owner, who's after him, and why did he leave you?"

Alfred tensed. "...Francis Bonnefoy's my owner. The guy who originally cast the spell on me is after him—a guy named Ivan Braginski. He wanted me to suffer on my own and eventually shut down alone. He didn't like that Francis was taking good care of me and trying to help me break the curse. I don't know why Francis left. The last thing I remember before this is him grabbing my face. He had just wound me up for breakfast when Ivan was on the news saying he was offering five hundred thousand dollars for my capture. Apparently I was an escaped convict. Luckily, Francis never let me outside, so no one knew me. He put me up on the shelf and wound me down before I really knew what was happening." The American explained, voice small.

"Seems he was scared and fled so he wouldn't get in trouble." Arthur said. In his mind, he was wondering if the story was true. Everyone knew Ivan Braginski, he was extremely famous and powerful. He wondered if the reward was still valid. That kind of money could pay off the rest of his student loans and help him get his tea shop up and running...

Alfred shook a bit. "He wouldn't do that. I knew him. He wouldn't run over something like that—he did all kinds of illegal things for me. He got me a fake I.D. and driver's license and some other stuff too, just in case..."

"I see." Arthur said, but he really didn't. Alfred was in denial. Clearly this Francis was no good. He kept his emerald eyes focused on the road and thought through this whole thing for the hundredth time today.

He was sitting next to a young man of nineteen, an American by the name of Alfred F. Jones, who just so happened to have been cursed to be a wind-up toy by world famous entrepreneur Ivan Braginski. Right. He wasn't insane, no. This was actually happening. He was driving a wind-up toy/human to a _WalMart_ to save him from a curse with the help of said toy's master, who was apparently not no good. Not insane at all.

They pulled into the parking lot after a bit and Alfred bit his lip. Arthur jolted at the sudden memory of the hole at the back of Alfred's sweatshirt. He reached out and opened as the boy turned to leave.

"Hey, what are you—" Alfred was cut off by the unsettling winding sensation that sent his mind whirring, suddenly thinking clearer and having more energy. He realized Arthur was winding him up again and then he also remembered the silver box. He hadn't remembered due to lack of critical thought because he had began to wind down. If not wound up at least every few hours, Alfred would become delirious, unable to function like a normal human, and eventually shut down until wound up again.

"Thanks." He said, then gratefully took the too-small coat Arthur handed him and draped it over his shoulders to cover up his back.

"You're welcome." Said Arthur. His shoulders slumped a bit as he walked, his strides short and timid.

Alfred moved much different. He carried himself with pride, chin up and head high, straightened out. He walked with a spring in his step, his strides long and bouncy. He was tall, towering over many. He strode into the _WalMart_ with extreme confidence and located the help desk. Arthur followed behind, telling himself he just wanted to make sure that the poor boy found his master again so that he could sleep easily that night.

"Hello, I'm looking for Barry?"

The girl at the counter stared at him blankly for a few seconds. "Who sent you?" She asked after a moment.

Alfred hesitated. "Francis." He said after a long moment, worried he may have just given himself away.

She nodded. "Right. I was told to give this to you. Barry's gone." She answered, ducking behind the counter.

Alfred waited impatiently. She emerged a moment later with a thin strip of paper, sealed and tight. She handed it to Alfred without another word and then moved on to the next person in line.

Arthur pulled Alfred aside. "How do you break the curse?"

"I don't know. Maybe this will say." Alfred shook his head as he hastily ripped open the letter. Inside was two papers; one splattered with bubblegum pink paint, the other a regular white piece of paper with elegant handwriting. Alfred read the white one first.

_Dear Alfred, _

_I am truly sorry for the news I must deliver today. I am more sorry that you do not know me, nor will you ever. It's with a heavy heart that I tell you Francis has disappeared. He did not give me his location, nor did he give it to you, I am assuming. There is only one thing he told me, which I truly hope you will understand: one word, a name, 'Matthew.' He made sure I was to tell you this. _

_I must also be the bearer of other news. Ivan is coming, and he's coming soon. He has discovered many of us and is dismantling our plan to save you little by little. Francis has so much faith in you and so do we—we all know the truth of what happened to you. I hope no one ever has to deliver this letter to you, and that instead I can tell you in person, but if not, do NOT come looking for me. I am long gone and will not be back. Instead, look for Francis. He is the only one who knows how to save you, and we all have faith in him as well. _

_Along with this letter is one that he gave me to give to you. I didn't read it for the sake of privacy._

_Farewell, Alfred. Be safe._

_-Barry."_

The Americans shook as he clutched the white letter in his hands. "No," he whimpered. "He can't be gone. Matthew? What does that mean? I-I don't know who Matthew is! I don't understand! Why would he—why would they—why would this happen?! How?!" He gasped, obviously about to cry.

"Read the other one." Arthur urged in what he hoped was a gentle tone. "It may shed some light on the situation."

But before they could, the door burst open and the barrels of ten guns were all Alfred could see, aimed for him.


End file.
